Ashara took a morning walk through the village, sore and happy.
Her thighs ached. Her hips were stiff. She was walking a little funny and she didn't care.
[Worth it. So worth it.]
She'd snuck out of the inn sometime before dawn, left a note on the pillow like a proper gentlewoman, and walked back to the troupe's wagons with wobbly legs and a stupid grin on her face. That adventurer was probably halfway down the road by now, headed back to whatever city she came from with her pretty-boy mage friend.
Shame. Ashara wouldn't have minded a round two.
She reached into the pocket of her skirt. The token was still there, the little metal coin the adventurer had given her before they'd fallen asleep. "If you change your mind, bring that to the Lumendell Adventurer's Guild."
Change her mind about what, exactly? Becoming an adventurer? Ashara rolled the coin between her fingers.
[Thanks, but I'm good.]
She tucked it back and kept walking.
The troupe had set up camp behind the village square, six wagons in a loose circle with a cooking fire in the middle. About fifteen dramari were scattered around in various states of wakefulness. Lysa, one of the younger dancers, was failing to braid her own hair. Maren was cooking something over the fire that smelled incredible. And Delara was sitting on a crate near the center of it all, silver hair pulled back, cup of tea in hand, watching everything.
She'd been managing this troupe for longer than Ashara had been alive.
"Good morning, sunshine," Delara said, not looking up from her tea.
"Morning, mama."
"You came back late."
"I came back at a very reasonable hour."
Delara's eyebrow went up about half an inch, which, for her, was a full interrogation.
"There she is!" Maren called out from the fire, waving a ladle. "The woman of the hour! Or, I should say, the woman of several hours, based on when you got back."
Ashara grabbed a bowl from the stack near the fire and held it out.
"Food first, roasting second."
"Oh, no, we're doing both." Maren dumped a generous portion of porridge into her bowl and grinned. "So. The tall one with the scars. The greatsword fighter."
"What about her?"
"Was she good?"
"Maren."
"I'm asking for research purposes."
Ashara sat down on the grass next to Lysa, who had been staring at her with wide violet eyes and a half-finished braid hanging off the side of her head this entire time.
"Ashara," Lysa said, "did you really sleep with an adventurer?"
[Oh gods.]
"Eat your breakfast, Lysa."
"Was she tall? She looked tall. With the sword on her back? She was really pretty in a scary kind of way."
"Here's the rundown: she was six-one, covered in scars, and yes, she was very good." Ashara took a bite of her porridge. "Can we move on?"
They could not move on.
The next ten minutes were a group effort to squeeze every detail out of Ashara, who gave up absolutely nothing.
Not the positions... (that lady was surprisingly flexible)
Not the sounds... (she was a very loud lover, which, honestly? Cute)
Not even a rating out of ten, and they asked... (ten, obviously)
Delara, at least, didn't press. She just sipped her tea, and when the noise died down, she said, "Rehearsal in twenty minutes. Ashara, you're leading warm-ups."
"Yes, ma'am."
Ashara scraped the last of her porridge and leaned back on her hands. The morning was warm. The troupe was loud. Maren was already telling a filthy joke that had Lysa covering her ears.
This was her life. This was what she loved.
---
The rest of the day went the way it always did.
Rehearsal in the morning, lunch around the fire, costume prep in the afternoon. Ashara spent half an hour teaching Lysa how to do the drop-into-arch from last night's set. The trick wasn't strength or flexibility, it was trust, letting yourself fall into the shape instead of forcing it. Lysa ate the dirt twice before she got a sloppy version of it and shrieked with joy.
"I did it!"
"You did... something." Ashara smiled. "Keep practicing. Your hips need to lead, not your shoulders."
"My hips don't move like yours."
"Nobody's hips move like mine. That's why I'm the headliner."
Lysa stuck her tongue out. Ashara ruffled her hair and sent her off.
The evening performance went off clean. Ashara nailed the new floorwork, and by the end of her solo, the front three rows had gone completely silent. Just staring, mouths open, drinks forgotten.
She took her bow and soaked it in.
After the show, wine came out, someone produced a lute, and the camp turned into its own little party. Ashara sat with her back against a wagon wheel, cup in hand, watching Lysa try to teach Maren a dance move that Maren's body was not built for.
"Thinking about your adventurer?" Delara asked, settling down next to her.
"She's not my adventurer."
"I'm just saying, you usually have a post-lay glow, but today you particularly glowed."
Ashara shrugged and took a sip of her wine.
"Well, there was one thing she said that I keep turning over in my head."
Delara looked at her.
"She told me I had 'aura control.' Said I could be an adventurer if I wanted to." Ashara laughed. "Can you picture it? Me, out in the wild, covered in monster guts, swinging a greatsword around?"
Delara paused for a moment. Then, a bit quietly, she said:
"No," Delara said. "You'd cry the second you chipped a nail."
"I would not cry." Ashara paused. "I would complain. Loudly. And then quit."
"That sounds more accurate."
"Right? So, yeah. Adventuring. Not for me."
Delara went quiet again, watching the fire.
"She said you had aura control?" She finally asked.
"Whatever that means."
"Hm."
Ashara glanced at her.
"What?"
"Nothing." Delara sipped her tea. "Just... I never noticed that myself. Though, then again, I'm not a fighter."
"..."
Ashara waited for more, but Delara didn't offer any.
The wine was mostly gone and the fire had burned to embers when Ashara started helping pack up.
Most of the troupe had turned in. It was quiet out, just bugs in the fields and the village settling down for the night.
Then she heard a howl.
Ashara stopped. It came from somewhere past the village edge, out in the dark beyond the last row of houses. Low and long and nothing like any wolf she'd ever heard.
Another howl joined it. Then a third.
"Ashara." Fen, one of the other performers, was standing very still near the wagon. Her face had gone white. "Do you hear that?"
The village alarm bells started ringing.
Ashara dropped what she was holding. The bells were loud, sharp, not a drill. Doors flew open down the main street, villagers stumbling out with lanterns, shouting over each other. She could hear children crying.
"Monsters." Delara's voice came from behind her. Ashara turned and found the troupe mother at the edge of camp, face pale, jaw tight. "Get everyone into the wagons. Now."
"Mama, what—"
"Now, Ashara."
She'd never heard that tone from Delara before. Not once.
Ashara turned toward the village edge, toward the dark line where the houses ended and the fields began.
She saw them. Massive shapes, moving fast. Four, five, maybe more. Too big to be wolves, too fast to be bears.
They were almost at the houses.